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“She’s having the baby! I need help. Fast.”
Cecily felt like moaning. Eros had shot an arrow straight to her crotch. One look at Will and her heart had dropped to the tips of her unpedicured toenails. God help her, had he ever aged well.
Memories flooded back. That hair, short and tousled now. His shoulders had broadened and they held up a loose-fitting, short-sleeved white polo shirt that showed off muscled arms and a spectacular tan. Stone-colored pants hung casually off tight buns.
A shiver ran down her thighs. She felt hot and wet, and couldn’t stem the sudden attack of heavy, dreamy lethargy. One look at him and she’d fallen for him again—drippily, stickily in lust with a married man.
Dear Reader,
Speaking as one who has an out-the-car-window relationship with cows, I can easily see how life as a big-animal veterinarian in rural Vermont could have its limitations, even if you had eleven cats to keep you company. So I understood why Cecily Connaught would view an obligatory wedding weekend in Dallas as her time to break out, have a fling with a stranger. Nor was it difficult to imagine that Will Murchison, no matter how much he wants to be Cecily’s weekend fling, could get a little distracted by the missing groom, his client, whom he suspects of tax evasion.
But how can these two encounter a host of problems, conflicting life goals and continual interruption and still manage to fall in love, all in twenty-four hours? Read on….
Cheers!
Barbara Daly
P.S. Share your twenty-four-hour romance story with me at [email protected].
Books by Barbara Daly
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
859—A LONG HOT CHRISTMAS
887—TOO HOT TO HANDLE
953—MISTLETOE OVER MANHATTAN
974—WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT…
HARLEQUIN DUETS
13—GREAT GENES!
34—NEVER SAY NEVER!
69—YOU CALL THIS ROMANCE!?
ARE YOU FOR REAL?
Kiss & Run
Barbara Daly
MILLS & BOON
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In loving memory of my own Cecily, who gave her family sixteen years of pure pleasure and unconditional love.
Contents
1
“KEEP THE CHANGE.”
“But lady, it’s a—”
“Smallest the ATM had.” Cecily Connaught got a grip on her luggage, leaped out of the taxi and ran hell-for-leather into the church foyer, narrowly avoiding collision with a person hauling a chicken-wire structure out of a florist’s van. Once inside, she halted for a moment, dizzied by the whirlwind of activity that surrounded her.
“Cecily, is that you?” Elaine Shipley’s eyes were wide as she darted toward Cecily.
“Now is not the time for chit-chat,” said a woman wearing peach who followed closely behind Elaine. “You’re late,” she told Cecily.
“At least she’s here,” said Elaine, “which is more than I can say for—”
“Now is not the time for gossip,” said the woman in peach. “Get out of those shoes and put these on.”
“But—” Apparently now was also not the time for protests. Someone took the bags out of her hands, sat her down, stripped off her comfortable, clunky sandals and slid her feet into a pair of mother-of-pearl satin stilettos—instant Misery by Manolo.
“You must rehearse in the shoes,” Miss Peach said firmly, hauling Cecily to her feet. “We don’t want any klutziness going down the aisle tomorrow. Now that you’re here we have to get started,” she muttered. “I don’t give a damn who else is missing.”
She
